If I were to reclaim the red skies I greedily owned and wage my wars again like the witch who danced into any man's heart, I will wash everything with white and repaint a different picture. Maybe a calm moon and few hundred stars here and there for a change, and the skies will be soaked in violet and vanilla, then maybe (just maybe), the storms will not be so harsh but would be like a lover's caress and the chilly air will smell like a thousand memories rolled into one.
If I were a gypsy again, I will find a man with no face, no name, nor family and friends to claim him. I will take his will in a single stride and leave him with a memory of a beautiful dream; one that he can always go back to at the comfort of his own mind. I will bear children with names like Luna, River, Redienne, Violet and Autumn.
If.
But I am, otherwise.
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